


give and take

by sky_reid



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (sub louis and dom harry whoa), Anal Sex, BDSM, Begging, Bondage, Dom/sub, Handcuffs, I think that's it - Freeform, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Rough Sex, Spreader Bars, Subspace, mentions of flogging, mild breathplay, quite short this one, some comeplay, the usual as dell would put it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:33:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6497377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_reid/pseuds/sky_reid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sometimes louis just <i>needs</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	give and take

**Author's Note:**

> i was originally gonna post this on tumblr but it got longer than i expected hashtag soml
> 
> inspired by louis' selfie you know the one with epic bedhead and coming-out-of-subspace eyes
> 
> (nobody gets choked or anything but mind the breathplay warning in the tags pls)

The click of handcuffs locking around his wrists feels like the last beep before the alarm goes off, the last tock of a ticking clock, the last grain of sand falling in an hourglass. He pulls on them out of habit, feels the supple leather pressing into his skin without leaving a mark. His heart beats faster though he’s forced to stay unnaturally still; he has no leverage with his arms folded behind his back and his legs held wide open by the spreader bar. It’s hard to breathe with his head down in the pillow. He waits.

He’s unnaturally aware of himself like this, suspended between here and there and teetering on the edge. There’s still enough clarity in his mind to be unpleasantly aware of the crease of the pillowcase uncomfortable against his cheek, of the hard press of body-warm metal against his ankles, of the drop of sweat running down the curve of his spine; not enough to steady his breathing or keep him from arching his back and presenting himself to Harry or stop him from _wanting_ wantonly. He whines thinly and squirms around, can't do much more than that. Harry doesn’t react.

He’s still in the room; if he could focus, Louis might even be able to figure out what he’s doing. As is, all he has is the vague awareness of being watched, the tingle at the back of his neck that tells him there are eyes on him, the occasional soft hum of a breath or the drag of feet over the carpet. He balls his hands into fists, short nails biting into sweaty palms. He wants to complain, to demand, to take; he wants to obey, to be patient, to earn the praise he craves.

He _needs_ to be good.

His breath hitches when the mattress shifts. He arches his back until it hurts and bites his lip. The whisper of Harry’s fingers over the backs of his thighs is so light it’s barely there; Louis feels it like an electric current, a lightning that goes straight to his chest. He whines helplessly, arms shaking with tension and the need to move, to touch, to _do_ something.

Harry’s hands on his arse feel like they’re melting the skin off; he’s still painfully tender from the flogger, still feels like he’s on fire all the way down the back of his thighs. He gasps when Harry sinks his nails in and scratches down over raw skin, leaving a burning trail behind. His first instinct is to get away, but when he tries, he only ends up losing what little balance he has and making breathing even harder on himself.

“Easy,” Harry soothes, running his hand down Louis’ back slowly. He doesn’t help him up or even touch him anywhere else, careful instead to stay just far enough for Louis to feel the heat of his body without so much as a brush of skin. Louis huffs into the pillow and tilts his head down. His eyes are prickling with tears. The word is at the tip of his tongue, but he can’t make himself say it yet. He takes as deep a breath as he can; the air smells like his own sweat and arousal.

Harry’s hand feels huge and heavy at the dip of his spine, spans almost the whole width of his back. His teeth sink into his lip until he thinks he might draw blood; his heart is beating so hard it’s almost the only thing he can hear. Harry thumbs one of his arsecheeks to the side and runs the head of his cock down his crack; it slips easily through the lube and catches on the loosened ring of his hole. Louis gasps and pushes back. Harry’s open palm slapping over his arse makes him jolt forward and try to close his legs. The metal cuffs around his ankles press against the bone.

“If you want it, all you have to do is ask for it,” Harry says, calm and gentle and sweet as if begging comes to everyone as easily as it does to him. He circles Louis’ hole with his thumb.

“H,” Louis grunts. He has to consciously force himself to relax because his shoulders are starting to hurt form how tense he is. Harry hums above him. He seems to be in no hurry when he dips his thumb inside and tugs, stretching Louis open. He taps the head of his cock over Louis’ hole, teasing. Louis whines. “Come on.” He's getting light-headed from breathing so shallowly; it feels like he’s drowning in anticipation.

Harry grabs him by the hair and pulls him up, his cock slipping between Louis’ cheeks. He puts his other hand on Louis’ chest; Louis wonders if he can feel the heartbeat underneath the skin. He keeps his eyes closed and chews on his bottom lip when he feels Harry’s breath tickling over his ear. “Ask nicely,” Harry says. He sounds perfectly calm, unaffected, _kind_. Louis can feel the tears welling up. “I know you know how.”

“I _can’t_.”

Harry yanks on his hair, making him suck in a breath noisily. “All you need to do is say the word,” he says sweetly. “Come on, love. Be good for me.”

It’s like the whole world stops spinning for a second. The words sink under Louis’ skin, spread like tingling shocks of electricity through his bloodstream. He doesn’t think he’s breathing; he knows he can’t move. He also knows he’s going to break. The tear that slides down his cheek is barely of note, just an irrelevant drop in the ocean of everything he feels right now. He takes a breath, licks his lips. It’s like the first hit of a joint, riding the first wave out on a sunny beach, taking the last step before a jump.

“ _Please_.”

And then it’s just free falling.

Harry shoves his head in the pillow and slams into him so hard, he feels like what little breath he had is fucked right out of him. He doesn’t have it in him to do more than bite into the pillow and cry. He thinks he’s moaning, the sound muffled by the pillowcase in his mouth and garbled by the hitching sobs he feels racking his body, but he can’t hear it over the endless loop of _please_ that’s playing in his head. It’s almost an out-of-body experience, the way he can feel the burn in his lungs from the lack of oxygen, the pull of muscle in his shoulders and back, the leather digging into his wrists and the metal pressing against his ankles; the rough strokes of Harry’s cock in and out of him, a rhythm so fast he almost doesn’t get to feel empty, the tug of Harry’s fingers in his hair, the painful squeeze of Harry’s hand on his hip, and yet, can’t feel anything at all, too lost in his own head. It could be dizziness setting in. He feels like he’s flying.

“Please,” he whimpers, the word coming out an unintelligible whistle even to him. “Please, please, _please_.” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, if Harry can even hear him; he just knows he needs to say it.

Harry pulls his head up, forcing him to arch his back. “What’s that, babe?” he asks, lips to Louis’ ear. His breath is hot and damp, comes out it quick bursts that send shivers down Louis’ spine.

“Please,” Louis repeats; he can’t seem to stop now that the dam’s opened. It doesn’t matter that he can hear it clearly for the first time, rough and weak and broken, or that it gets almost overpowered by the steady slap of skin and Harry’s quiet grunts; all that matters is that he says it. The word feels more important than anything else at the moment, the sound of it more arousing than the smarting of his tender arse and thighs where Harry touches them, the shape of it on his lips better than the stretch of Harry’s thick cock. It’s oddly liberating to be reduced to nothing but begging when he knows there’s someone he trusts around to hear him.

Harry kisses his shoulder and licks down between his shoulder blades. “Yeah,” he whispers breathlessly, “I’ve got you.”

The pillow is wet with tears and spit when Louis lands face-first in it with both of Harry’s hands now on his hips and nothing holding him up; he barely notices. Harry pulls on the cuffs, stretching his arms back further, and fucks him faster. He doesn’t seem to care about technique or rhythm anymore, only about what feels good for him. For once, that’s exactly what Louis needs - to be used for somebody else’s pleasure, to be needed, to feel like he has a purpose. He relaxes and lets himself melt into the bed, arse held up only by Harry’s hand on his hip. He forgets to breathe or swallow or move, forgets everything but the brutal pace of Harry’s thrusts that rock him forward and the endless mantra of pleas that falls from his lips.

He’s only marginally aware of Harry’s fingers wrapping around his cock, of pleasure building at the base of his spine, of the near-animalistic grunt he lets out when he comes because Harry is still fucking him, still _using_ him and that seems infinitely more important. When Harry pulls him up by the cuffs, he already feels boneless, too weak to tense even a single muscle, but he happily licks his own come from Harry’s palm that’s pressed over his mouth. His throat feels sore when he hums at the taste.

He falls back down as soon as he’s released, Harry’s cock slipping out of him. He whines at the loss, clenches his hole instinctively as if he can have it filled again through sheer power of will. The smack of Harry’s palm over his arsecheek feels almost as good, but it’s the slick sound of Harry’s hand stripping his cock and the sudden hitch of his breath that placate him. When Harry comes on the tender skin of his arse it burns in the best possible way, like a brand of ownership that he never wants to lose. He sighs into the pillow, happy to stay like that for as long as Harry wants.

The adrenaline will take a while to wear off, the fog in his mind won’t clear until later, after the real ache has set into his muscles and bones, a gradual landing more than a sudden crash. He still distantly appreciates the almost immediate click of cuffs unlocking, the gentle kisses to the bruised skin underneath, the soothing circles Harry rubs into his joints. He knows he’s wiped clean, turned on his back and made to drink water, but it doesn’t feel real or immediate or important; all that matters at the moment is the low timbre of Harry’s voice that vibrates through him and the press of soft lips to his.

**Author's Note:**

> find me [on tumblr](http://captivekinqs.tumblr.com)


End file.
